M Weisman stories. Maria Heinz stories. The opportunity for creative freedom, I think, attracts no less than the fee

Apartment on the ground floor

- Hello! Are you renting an apartment? – the woman asked hastily in German, barely able to pronounce the words.

- Berg. “Good afternoon, you’re not mistaken,” the man answered slowly in contrast to her, drawing out each word like the bellows of an accordion. He didn’t speak his native Russian quickly, much less speak German.

– Three-room apartment, on the second floor, from the first of August? – Slowing down the pace a little, the woman continued. The man's strong accent confused her a little. Rent a house in Germany from a foreigner? But what difference does it make if the apartment is suitable?

- Absolutely correct, madam...

“Schmidt, Helga,” the woman realized. The man's soft and polite manner of speaking completely dispelled her doubts. – If you don’t mind, my husband and I will come and have a look this evening. Please give me your address.

The man still slowly dictated the address, wrote down the phone number of the caller in case anything changed, and hung up.

The young couple arrived, as promised, at eight. At the threshold of the apartment they were met by a tall, dryish man of about fifty wearing neatly ironed black trousers, a tight-fitting jumper and highly polished shoes. Short, evenly trimmed hair resembled the round crown of a noble, but already thinning coniferous tree with age. You could say typical German, even exemplary: well-groomed, polite, neat. It’s just a strong accent... Whether because of it or for some other reason, Berg spoke little and used words sparingly, as if he was straining through a sieve.

Somewhere between the long, freshly painted hallway and the kitchen, Schmidt couldn’t help but ask:

– Where are you from, if it’s not a secret?

“From Russia,” Berg responded, pointing to the kitchen window, which overlooked a green meadow.

Schmidt, accustomed to life in the countryside, in nature, was not at all impressed by the latter.

- Russian German? Displaced person? – he continued.

“Yes...” answered the owner of the apartment, showing the kitchen. – You don’t need to buy appliances: a refrigerator, a dishwasher, a stove – everything is there.

– Have you already saved up for an apartment? – Schmidt did not let up.

“No,” Berg winced like a musician who has stumbled on a difficult passage, “I moved recently, three years ago.” The apartments: this one and the one below – I inherited from my mother.

“Well, I would move too,” Schmidt smiled kindly and winked. – What are you doing? Are you working?

- No, I don’t work... I have a hobby... Music...

– Do you play or compose? – Mrs. Schmidt picked up.

- No, I don’t dare. I listen more and more...

Berg left the young couple in the kitchen and breathed a sigh of relief. Empty talk... Chatter... Prejudice about immigrants - they are like nails in a wall: even if you take them out, they will still leave gaping holes. And that around them there is another space, flat, white, and people in it are of a completely different nature, sensitive and subtle - this is inaccessible to their understanding. How to explain the philosophy of a single person to paired creatures... His philosophy, which he spent his whole life on. No... It’s faster to rent out an apartment to them and back to the first floor - to your temple of purity, silence and magical music.

After whispering in the kitchen, the young people came out smiling.

– We liked the apartment. We agree to sign the agreement,” Schmidt extended his wide, worn hand. But Berg did not answer.

– Maybe you have questions for us? – Mrs. Schmidt became worried.

Berg had one question, but it was so delicate and even awkward that he still could not find the right moment and form for it. Until his fingers hurt, Berg pulled the verbal strings, tuning them to the correct sound. Not wanting to allow falsehood, he tried chords in different keys, with sharps and flats, but the ideal melody still did not come out. Words got in the way again...

“Don’t consider it tactless,” he muttered when Schmidt hesitantly lowered his hand, “I must warn you...” the owner of the apartment spoke in a low voice, almost in a whisper, covering his mouth with his hand, as if embarrassed by his own words. – I have one peculiarity. Of course, every person has them. In relationships like ours - neighborly, I mean - the main thing is to warn about them in advance, so that there are no misunderstandings later. I honestly say that...” he dropped to almost a whisper. The faces of the visitors tensed, they leaned forward with their whole bodies, expecting to hear terrible secret. Berg backed away and only when he felt the cold wall behind him, he realized that there was nowhere to retreat. He stopped and continued:

– I have very sensitive ears – musical ones. I live downstairs, in an apartment below this one, on the first floor, and the material here, unfortunately, is thin,” he tapped on the wall, “you can hear everything.”

Schmidt shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment and thundered:

- We will try not to make noise. Is that right, dear? – he smiled at his wife. She nodded shyly. - Deal?

Schmidt again extended his palm to Berg, but even now he was in no hurry to seal the agreement with a handshake.

- Something else? – the woman was alarmed. - Speak!

Berg lowered his eyes, tormented by doubts. It's time to move on to final chords, and he was still lost in the overture variations. He was silent, waiting for the appropriate phrase to come to his mind, but it was in no hurry. How can I express my dislike of words in words? How to explain the dislike for them, and at the same time for all their carriers, especially the most immature and unintelligent? How can he explain to others what he himself did not fully understand?

Berg developed a dislike for words early on. For some time he resisted it together with educators, speech therapists and school teachers, but over time he obeyed his inner call, considering composition an activity that was not characteristic of him and alien in nature. Words always brought with them unnecessary worry, anxiety and fear. And Berg avoided them as if they were annoying neighbors or relatives. All life. Only here, next to his sick, almost non-speaking mother, did he find peace and harmony. A year without fuss, curious neighbors and questions from friends about the future, talk about the absence of descendants and the suppression of the family. A year of silence, absolute purity, broken only by magical melodies. Berg couldn't go back. He sold everything he had in Russia and, without telling anyone, hid here from the bustling world.

The young people waited tensely.

– Do you have children? – Berg finally squeezed out.

“No, until God gives...” they looked at each other sadly.

The agreement was signed for three years. A separate clause in the termination section included excess noise levels, established by law, and complaints from neighbors, including the apartment owner himself. Three warnings would be enough for eviction.

The Schmidts quickly became acquainted with the other residents of the entrance and learned from them that Berg was called here nothing more than a “proper ghost”: he was seen extremely rarely, and if he left the confines of his apartment, it was quietly, unnoticed, at exactly the allotted hours. He showed up outside twice a week - for a morning run and a trip to the store. If it weren’t for the thick curtains, which he opened exactly at eight in the morning and pushed back exactly at nine in the evening, and the music that could occasionally be heard from behind the massive door, one would think that no one lived in the apartment - it was so quiet there.

They said that Berg was a Russian spy sent by intelligence to carry out secret missions. Hence the secrecy, unsociability and silence. He spends the afternoon listening to music, which creates a noise curtain for secret work. No one knew this for certain, because Berg did not allow anyone beyond the threshold of his apartment, turning it with bars on the windows and a door with three locks into a kind of impregnable fortress, which only strengthened the suspicions hovering around him.

Berg made no exceptions for tenants: he did not bother with checks, asked for payments to be transferred to an account, did not enter into conversations, did not invite them to his place. Noticing, however, that the woman stopped going to work, he became worried.

– Are you sick, Mrs. Schmidt? – he asked her when he met her on the stairs.

She was embarrassed and lowered her eyes to her rounded belly.

- Now, we are waiting for the addition to the family...

Berg turned pale and recoiled, as if someone invisible had hit him in the face with a glove.

“Good job,” he whispered.

- We will try not to make noise. “Don’t worry,” the woman hastened to reassure him, but the neighbor, not listening to her, turned away and slowly, staggering, disappeared behind the apartment doors.

He no longer spoke to her; with her husband he exchanged phrases that had nothing to do with the inevitable, as if trying to delay its onset. The baby, however, was born on time, healthy and vociferous. He accepted the house and his parents unconditionally, received everything he needed on demand and therefore did not shout much, but if he started roaring, it was not only the closest neighbors who woke up. Dog owners walking along the street flinched at the baby's cry and quickened their pace, urging their silent, obedient pets on.

No one officially complained. The first doorbell of the young family rang six months later. Mrs. Schmidt, red and disheveled, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, opened the door and intended to send the visitor home to dress the baby after bathing, but did not dare - Berg was standing at the threshold.

The woman nodded, smoothing her tangled hair with her hands. The baby was babbling in the bathroom.

– I won’t beat around the bush. You probably don’t have time to listen to my opuses. Let's get to the main point.

“If it won’t be long, I just gave the baby a bath...” she answered, glancing anxiously towards the bathroom.

“Yes, yes... Sorry for distracting you with such a trifle, but I have one feature that I was talking about,” Berg stopped again, looking for suitable words, but, catching his mother’s gaze as heavy as a seventh chord, he immediately continued, “sensitive.” ears.

- Yes. What's wrong with them?

- IN Lately Your apartment has become very noisy...

“You see, it’s a child,” the woman spread her hands. – If he screams, you won’t calm him down right away. An unreasonable creature. I try as best I can.

- What are you talking about, it’s not about the child! Not in it. A child is legally entitled to make noise - it is not in my power. The knocking of doors bothers me, the chairs in the kitchen have iron legs. You know, there's a rubber band. It can be pasted on the doors. Place soft felt pads under the chairs. They're in a hardware store...

The baby's scream drowned out the neighbor's explanations. The mother rushed into the bathroom and returned with a pink-cheeked boy wrapped in a towel, rubbing his eyes.

“I want to sleep,” she said, immediately forgetting what they had just talked about.

“You can buy it at a hardware store...” Berg continued, staring at the floor. - And house shoes...

His explanation was interrupted by a phone call.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Schmidt was alarmed. – This could be very important.

She rushed with the child into the room, then into the kitchen. The tube continued to hum melodiously.

- Where is she?! – the woman exclaimed in her hearts. - Hold it, please.

She thrust the baby into the hands of a neighbor and disappeared into the bedroom. Berg froze. The baby, taking advantage of the absence of his mother and the confusion of his neighbor, pulled his playful hands towards his silver beard. It turned out to be prickly and tickled my hand. The kid slapped it with his palm and laughed loudly. Berg did not move, only squinted his eyes before the next attack of the little robber. Slap-slap, slap-slap - he didn’t let up.

Obeying some strange feeling, Berg took the baby’s hand in his, pressed it to his beard, ran it over it, then lifted it for a second and lowered it, only softer. The boy smiled, released his hand and repeated. More and more. Berg froze, stunned. This unreasonable creature understood him! It answered him! They spoke a language without words. As in the music that was suddenly heard... He shuddered and looked around. The windows were closed, only Mrs. Schmidt's voice could be heard from the bedroom. The melody did not disappear: quiet and gentle, gradually growing and fading again, like sea ​​wave, it rolled onto the cold rocky shore, filling the crevices, cracks and voids. Without allowing her to come to her senses and take a deep breath, she left, leaving life-giving moisture, fertile mud and the salty taste of a relieving tear on the stones.

Berg was seized with panic, he wanted to abandon the boy and run away, but the music would not let him go. She, born from his consciousness, led to a new, hitherto unknown world. A world that no one told him about, that he didn’t know about or didn’t want to know about. The world is frightening, unknown and at the same time inviting and beautiful. A secret door was opened to him, and he held the key to it in his hands.

– You have a natural talent! – Mrs. Schmidt exclaimed, looking out of the bedroom. - Sorry it took me so long. This is from work. Important call. He doesn’t sit as calmly with dad as he does with you. Perhaps you have experience?

“Nothing,” Berg smiled shyly and carefully handed the baby to his mother. - First time small child held in his arms.

- Marvelous! – Mrs. Schmidt hugged her son, who was still stretching his chubby hands to his neighbor’s beard. - So what are we talking about? You were talking about noise... Shoes...

“Yes, nothing... All this is not very important,” Berg waved his hand and headed towards his room, swaying on each step to the beat of a melody audible only to him.

Since then, the neighbor has not complained about the noise. Of course, it didn’t get any smaller. Quite the contrary. The baby learned to crawl, grab objects and throw them on the floor, knock on a plate with a spoon and perform other exciting loud actions. His range of desires was replenished daily, which he notified the world about with a demanding cry. Berg felt not only this. Now he woke up before dark with the baby and waited for the mother, heeding his ever-increasing calls, to press the baby to a warm breast full of milk. Having had his fill, the boy fell asleep for another hour. Around eight he crawled out of bed, made his way on all fours to the kitchen and screamed, banging on the refrigerator with his fist. After breakfast, mother and son went out for a walk. At the same time, now every day, Berg walked in circles along Mrs. Schmidt’s usual “stroller” route. When she headed home, Berg helped her up to the second floor and waved to the baby until his smiling face disappeared into the apartment: it was time for an afternoon nap.

Berg, lulled by the silence, dozed in his chair at the computer and smiled. He imagined magical music, filled with deep meaning. The baby was again sitting in his arms, pulling at his beard, rubbing his chubby hands on it and bursting into laughter. Berg pressed his little body tightly to himself, as if at one moment he wanted to feel everything that until recently he had no idea about the existence of: he inhaled the smell of mother’s milk with the light aroma of fresh strawberries, stroked the soft, silky skin of the child, marveled at the wordless play of the mischievous face. The boy's roaring laughter caressed him absolute pitch and seemed more beautiful than any, the most perfect melody. Then the boy disappeared, and before Berg’s eyes, faces from another life appeared - on the other side of the door, behind three bolts and bars on the windows: girls he met in his youth, mature women who offered him love and fidelity, but never gave birth to children - he didn’t want them... - all those to whom he invariably said “no”. All those whom he, without hesitation, left behind the door, cutting off at once any hint of approach, the touch of someone else, disturbing, dangerous. With the jealousy of a warden he guarded square meters ideal world a loner whom he himself imprisoned here.

A loud scream was heard from above. Berg shuddered, rubbed his eyes and looked around in confusion. A strange dream…

Wake up, little robber! Now he will eat and crawl around the apartment. First in the large room, on the coffee table. It is forbidden! Boom. Of course it hurts if you fall. Now onto the horse. “Look, mom, how I can!” No! Just sitting! Boom. Doesn't scream - mom has backup. They are going for a walk. We went out into the entrance. Laughs. He demands to let go of his hand. He wants to show his mother how he learned to go down the stairs on his own. Be careful, baby! Going down is harder than climbing up. First step, second, third. One flight is ready! Well done! Entering the second one. Step, two, three. Bang! I could not resist! Now he will cry... But the baby did not cry. Mrs. Schmidt screamed.

Berg jumped up and opened the door. The neighbor bent over the boy's motionless body, pale as a ghost.

- Fell. I hit my head. “He seems to be breathing,” she muttered, stroking the baby’s cheek with a trembling hand.

“Let me go, I’ll take a look,” the neighbor bent over the child. – I used to work in a hospital.

The baby opened his eyes and blinked in fear.

“Call an ambulance,” Berg commanded. – Prepare your things, documents for the boy, insurance. Call my husband from the hospital when we find out everything.

Mrs. Schmidt silently obeyed. Returning with a bag of things, she found a neighbor with a baby in his apartment, in a large room on the floor. Berg stroked the boy’s palm and sang something touching, surprisingly tender and beautiful to him. The child was silent, blinked his eyes and listened carefully.

“Sorry that I brought it here,” the neighbor said guiltily. – It’s warmer and calmer here. I wrapped it up so it wouldn't move. Now I’m singing... He stopped crying. Looks like he's fine. My song calms him down.

“I thought he didn’t like music.” My lullabies make him cry even more. What kind of song are you singing? I'll learn it too.

“I don’t know,” Berg was confused. “Of course it works out somehow.” From my head...

The ambulance has arrived. The boy was diagnosed with a concussion and taken to the hospital along with his mother for observation.

Returning home, the young family notified the owner of the apartment about the move. We found a more suitable option - without stairs. Berg signed the termination agreement without any objections, without saying a word that the contract had not yet expired, and set about finding new tenants.

The tenants did not approach - not one. Just hearing new voice on the phone, Berg winced, turned up his nose and, overcoming the unbearable desire to throw the receiver away, hurried to say “no.” When they called again, he reported that the apartment had already been rented out. The property stood idle, the calls became fewer and fewer, but Berg still refused. And this would have continued indefinitely, if not for the melodic voice of the woman who called after a week of silence.

- Good afternoon! – she said in German with an easily recognizable accent. Berg greeted her in Russian, and the woman, relieved, began chattering in her native language. – Your apartment suits us very well. We haven't been able to find anything for months now. Therefore, do not refuse if you have not passed yet.

While Berg was pondering whether the woman came from Vologda villages or other, even more northern - Pomeranian villages, she spoke further.

– Today we’ll come and have a look. I just wanted to ask what floor the apartment is on. Is there a lift? We have one-year-old twins. With both of them it will be difficult for me to go up and down.

Berg smiled. Everything this woman said seemed amazingly correct and genuinely truthful to him. Her words flowed like a lullaby for a newborn, in which each note had its own letter, each chord a word, each bar a phrase. Everything came together perfectly. Fascinated by the sound, Berg remained silent. He wanted to listen and listen, and let it get louder and louder. Open the door and windows, tear off the bars and locks to let in this fresh wind, saturate every centimeter with it empty apartment, every wrinkle on his lonely body and fill them with life, hitherto unknown to him, but suddenly becoming unbearably close and desirable.

- So? Is there a lift? – the woman repeated impatiently. She was about to hang up when Berg's voice was heard.

“There’s no elevator,” he answered in his leisurely accordion style, “but you don’t have to worry.” The apartment I rent is on the first floor.

I. Organizational moment.

Everyone stood up at their desks beautifully,

We greeted each other politely.

They sat down quietly, with their backs straight.

We'll take a slight breath

And we'll start the lesson with you.

Let's prepare the speech apparatus.

II.Speech warm-up.

1. Pure statements.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, don’t go there, Vadim!
Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo- I’ll go there anyway.
Di-di-di, di-di-di - You're dressed, don't go!
Yes-yes-yes, yes-yes-yes-Oh! Cold water!
De-de-de, de-de-de - That's trouble! Vadim, where are you?
Dy-dy-dy, dy-dy-dy-you can only hear it from the water.

2. Tongue twister:

Woodpecker, woodpecker is our friend
The oak chisels like a chisel.
Help us, uncle woodpecker,
Build a house for starlings.

Result: So, we have prepared the speech apparatus for further work.

III . Updating knowledge. Checking homework.

What section of the textbook are we studying?

What works of this section have you read?

There is silence in class

We especially need it.

Go away, talk,

In the lobbies, in the corridors,

And check the assignment.

Retelling of N. Nosov’s story “Mishkina Porridge”

IV .Statement of the lesson topic.

Slide 1.

Remember the name of the story in the 1st part of the textbook that we read earlier.

How can I find the title of this writer's story? ( According to the content of part 1 of the textbook)

Who main character this story? (boy Filya)

Where do the events described in the story take place? ?(on vacation, at sea)

What is the name of the section of the textbook in which we study the works? ? (“We continue to unravel the secrets of the funny”)

Slide1 (click)

Read the title on the slide that we will read today in class.

Setting goals:

What goals will we set for ourselves?

(1. Get acquainted with the work.

2. Continue to unravel the secrets of the funny.

3. Find out how the main character will appear before us.)

V .Work on the topic of the lesson

Work with the work of M. Weissman “My favorite little console.”

1. Working with the text before reading.

– Read the title of the work again.

Think about what this work will be about?

What does the word prefix mean? (Listening to children's answers)

Where should you look to clarify the meaning of this word? What skill will we need? (Ability to work with an explanatory dictionary. (Vol. p. 148))

(Hearing an article from explanatory dictionary p.148)

Console - (computer console). A video game device that connects to your TV. For example: play on a computer console.

Why is the word prefix used affectionately in the title of the work and why is it called “my favorite”? What does this mean?

Where should we look to determine the textbook page on which we will work? (In the contents of the textbook.)

– Look at the illustration for this work. What do you think the work will be about and what it will be about? (We see the boy Filya again.)

Indeed, we will talk about the same boy Phil, who came with his family to relax at the seaside.

There is another word in this text whose meaning needs to be clarified. Find it on page 86 of the reader.

Where should I go for clarification of its meaning? (vol. dictionary p. 134)

Dylda - A tall, awkward man. For example: look how big he is!

2. Working with text while reading.

1. Reading passages and discussion after each passage.

"Small introduction" the teacher reads (the first two sentences).

Question after reading:

A) Further reading of the text by the teacher until the words “- Come on, shoot little fellow!”

Who is the narrator? (boy Filya)

Can we tell how old Phila was? (small, if 10 years is big for him)

Choose a synonym for the word big. (Big, tall, adult.)

What else suggests that the main character was small compared to the big guy? ("shook me off the chair...", "called me a little guy")

b) Read further through the text to the words (...play, well, at least five minutes!)

What did you learn about the hero?

Did the boy want to play on a computer console?

How strong? What words from the text indicate this? (...that sent shivers down my spine...)

Why didn't his mother allow him to play? (“...sitting in the stuffiness”, “doesn’t read anything”, “twitching”, “all bad grades and nightmares”)

What can you say about your mother’s character? What is she like?

How did Filya react to this big guy? (offended)

Prove (..I become red and angry, and my eyes sting)

What happened a second later? (He saw the boy playing the console well and froze.)

Do you think Fili's opinion about this big guy changed when he saw how he played? (I was jealous and also wanted to learn to play well.)

How did Phil decide to act in order to get permission to play? (simplify)

Can he do this? (Yes)

Support with words from the text (“tentively took her hand”, “tenderly looked into her eyes”, “...mommy, I love you so much...”)

Did you manage to get your mom's permission?

How did you understand that mom is against it? ?(threw their hand away)

Pay attention to the highlighted places in the text. What is this technique called? (CONTRAST technique: gently took and threw away the hand)

And what other technique? (The hand turned into a snake. COMPARISON technique)

What did Phil immediately say to his mother? (That's it, no need...)

Why does he repeat these words three times?

Did the boy give up his dream of playing the PlayStation?

How did Phil decide to act? (...I turned to dad)

What did dad say? (I immediately allowed it, but with one condition).

And you use this trick in life: ask your mom, and if she doesn’t allow it, ask your dad.

What game did Phil choose? (where they fight by giving the enemy)

How long did Phil play the game? (5 minutes)

Why so few? (...like I'm a little crazy)

How did mom react to his game? (she cried and left)

What can you say about mom, how does this characterize her? (loves, fears for him)

Did Phila want to end the game?

Confirm with words from the text. (...so be it...)

But he was still happy!

Do you think Filya has calmed down? Can you predict how events will develop further?

Does Filya know his mother well?

Support with words from the text. (crawled onto his knees, it’s easier to ask, he can’t forbid it when he’s on his knees a little boy)

Did mom immediately let Fila play?

Why? What was important to mom? (So ​​that it works in life, not only on the console.)

What trick did our hero come up with so that his mother would allow him? (...gradually I will develop the habit of winning in life).

Did this trick work? (Yes.)

e)Reading the text to the end.

What conclusion does Filya come to when she discovers that the big guy is floating in the armbands? (It turns out that in life I have already defeated him.)

What does Phil decide to do? (Now worthless learn to press buttons..., ran to my favorite console.)

What did Filya become at the end of the story? (confident)

3. Revealing reading comprehension.

Work in pairs.

A) Drawing up a story plan.

Read the plan on the cards on your desk.

Slide

“I wanted to play so much that it sent shivers down my spine.”

“It’s just that when I pressed the buttons, my legs were jumping and my hands were shaking.”

"I've already defeated him in my life"

“Mom threw my hand away as if it had turned into a snake.”

“It would be nice if something worked out in life.”

What's the plan? (quoted)

Is it composed consistently?

Determine the sequence. Write the corresponding numbers in the circles. (1,4,2,5,3)

Check against the standard.

Who completed the task?

b) Let's look at the secrets of the funny.

What secrets of the funny did Maria Vaisman help us discover? Pay attention to the underlined places.

We will explain for each case.

1 case(p.86) It’s funny, someone doesn’t understand something. (The boy wants to play on the console, but his mother says that it’s better not to sit in the stuffiness, but to go swimming and for a walk).

Case 2(p.87) It’s funny when expectation and reality are contrasted. (He wants to play all day, but he agrees for five minutes.)

Case 3(p.87) It’s funny when there is exaggeration (technique) (One and a half minutes - painful).

Case 4(p.89) It’s funny when it turns out the other way around. (Is reading good books, but I like games where it’s a complete fight).

Does it ever happen to you that your parents don’t like what you like? - What way out of such situations did you find?

V) Working on the image of the main character.

Who is the main character of the story?

What can you say about the boy?

What words and actions prove that he:

Affectionate;

Persistent;

I became confident.

Find words that show how Phil persuades and convinces his mother to allow him to play on the console. Try to convey the boy's character in your voice. (Reading by roles)

Work in groups.

Compiling a syncwine.

Let's make a syncwine and express our attitude towards Phila.

What skills will help us cope with this work? (Ability to work with text, highlight the main thing, find the necessary information in the text and write down the essence.)

Slide(Rules for compiling syncwine:

1. The first line contains the topic (1 word - noun.)

2. Second line - description of the topic (2 words - adjectives.)

3. The third line is a description of the action (3 words - verbs.)

4. The fourth line is a phrase of 4 words that repeat the essence of the topic.

5.The fifth line is a one-word synonym. which repeats the essence of the topic.

For example:

1. Filya.

2.Kind, affectionate.

3. Asks, achieves, plays.

4. He won in life.

5. Well done!

VI . Lesson summary. Reflection

What new did you learn?

What work did you read?

Which section should we include this work in?

-What is the secret of funny?

Remember what goals we set for ourselves? . Did you manage to achieve them?

What new have you learned?

– What did you find most interesting in the lesson?

To evaluate your work in class, fill out the achievements table.

Rate yourself

Homework:

Select a task within your capabilities:

1. Come up with your own story about Phil and write it down.

2. Retelling the story.

3. Reading by roles.

Book of stories" Longing for a jigsaw" can be called a continuation of the book "Isn't it fun?" The twins Vera and Philip grew up and went to school. Joyful discoveries and deepest disappointments await them. Philip makes discoveries not only at school, but at every step, without even leaving his summer cottage. He is lucky to have various events, for example, he and his entire family (which he, it must be said, calls “a family of crazy people”) had a chance to see a real flying saucer. He talks about his classmates, about how he found a friend in unexpected place, about your pets. Finally, Philip reflects on the meaning of life. Philip doesn’t just talk about something, from each event he draws some conclusions that can be argued with.
This is a true book about happy childhood, in which children go to Pushkin Museum And Grand Theatre and reflect on what it means to be a real artist. In this book, parents try to understand their children. The word almost never appears in this book...

The book of short stories “Longing for the Jigsaw” can be called a continuation of the book “Is it really fun?” The twins Vera and Philip grew up and went to school. Joyful discoveries and deepest disappointments await them. Philip makes discoveries not only at school, but at every step, without even leaving his summer cottage. He is lucky to have various events, for example, he and his entire family (which he, it must be said, calls “a family of crazy people”) got to see a real flying saucer. He talks about his classmates, about how he found a friend in an unexpected place, about his pets. Finally, Philip reflects on the meaning of life. Philip does not just talk about something, from each event he draws some conclusions with which one can argue.
This is a true book about a happy childhood, in which children go to the Pushkin Museum and the Bolshoi Theater and think about what it means to be a real artist. In this book, parents try to understand their children. The word computer hardly appears in this book. This is a book about the last generation of children who do not yet know what social media. They discuss all life events directly with their loved ones, friends, neighbors, and not on the pages of their account. Some people may find this book very funny. And for some - sad. In this book, both parents and children will learn a lot of interesting things not only about the boy Philip, but also about themselves.
Since Masha Vaisman wrote these stories on behalf of the boy Philip, the artist Pyotr Perevezentsev drew pictures for them, similar to children’s drawings. Therefore, the book contains many sketched details of children’s life...

Masha Vaisman: “Children’s paper book will live longer than others"

Text: Olga Strauss
Photo: Masha Vaisman

How are your favorite children's books born? How do independent book publishers that specialize in publishing unprofitable children's literature survive? This is our conversation with Mashey Vaisman- manager and owner publishing house "August", which has been publishing books at the highest artistic level since the very beginning of the 2000s, that is, becoming one of the first independent children's publishing houses.

Masha, why did you even get into this business?
Masha Vaisman: I inherited it. My husband, Alexander Konyashov, who, alas, died four years ago, was once a producer of the television program “Dog Show”. The program was popular, we got some money, and he decided to open a children's book publishing house. This was in the late 90s.

Are you a bookish person yourself?
Masha Vaisman: Yes very. I am a bibliographer by profession, and have worked in Historical library, and in Teatralnaya.

In general, as far back as I can remember, I really wanted to make books.

As a child, I built them all the time, together with my dad. Dad drew, and I sewed, wrote, and came up with covers. In general, the book as an artifact has always worried me very much. I spent quite a lot of time with my grandparents, they had a wonderful library - I remember, for example, the collected works of Pushkin from 1937, such blue volumes, with tissue paper in front of each portrait on the title page...And then, when I was already an employee of Istoricheska, I worked in a restoration workshop, restoring books. I really liked it too.

But let's get back to publishing. Why then, in the 90s, was Alexander Konyashov seduced by the book business?

Masha Vaisman: Firstly, he is a poet himself. Wrote and... The poems that Sasha wrote in the late 80s - early 90s, even before the birth of our children, were supposed to be published in a collection by the Malysh publishing house. But the putsch broke out, the collapse of the country, then the crisis... No one cared anymore.
Well, in the late 90s he returned to this topic. Moreover, he wanted to publish not only his own, but also to republish his favorite works of Russian classics for children. What he himself liked as a child, but with some new illustrations so that it was something radically new. It turned out so radically that many merchandise experts in bookstores, where we began offering our products, were indignant: what is this? Who told you that books can be made this way?

What was radically new?
Masha Vaisman: Firstly, the artists who collaborate with our publishing house are Irina Kireeva, Ekaterina Rozhkova, Katya Margolis, Alexey Orlovsky, Pyotr Perevezentsev, Andrey Dubrovsky- these are “artists”, not illustrators. Katya Rozhkova I actually graduated from VGIK. Therefore, the resulting books were completely different from those that were then in bookstores. And even now our books are recognizable. We try to ensure that in all books, in addition to the text, there is some other parallel history narrated by drawings.
And secondly, I am fundamentally against the idea of ​​such familiar, you know, cute pink baby cats in children’s drawings. That is

I believe that children are much smarter than we think. Already at four or five years old they are able to perceive very serious things.

I myself didn’t like baby talk as a child, and my children couldn’t stomach it.

“Belkin's Tales”, which became classics of Russian literature, were written by Alexander Pushkin in a month and a half in 1830 / August Publishing House, 2012.

How many are there? And how old are they now?
Masha Vaisman: I’m already 26 years old, I have twins, a son and a daughter. As they grew up, I realized how few good new children's books there were. No, of course they were. I remember how happy the release of the big book was for everyone. I remember wonderful collection Sergei Kozlov“I am lying in the sun” and the pleasure with which my son read it.
Children, of course, need poetry, but then we basically only had Chukovsky yes...Besides, then for some reason no one wrote (or published?) stories about modern children, about their lives today. Except yes Nosova, which we, the parent generation, grew up with, there was nothing like them.
But the children grew up! Their indescribable life was going on right before their eyes. And I began to record everything that was happening around. This is how my two books were born. “Really Fun,” which came out in 2000, and “Longing for the Jigsaw.”

“Longing for a jigsaw is a long-debunked problem...”
Masha Vaisman: Yes, yes, this line apparently sat firmly somewhere in the subcortex. The first book was born from a trip to Crimea. We were there big company, with children, and it was surprisingly good: the first sea, pebbles, horses on the embankment... My husband said: write, write, we’ll publish everything!

How can there be a children's publishing house without a modern author?

And you know, this book was such a success that several stories from it were even included in the reading program for 2-3 grades.

Marina Tsvetaeva’s book “The Ice Rink Has Melted” was published in the series “Russian Poets for Children and Adults”/August Publishing House, 2015.

So, as soon as you wrote your first book, you became a classicist, which they study in school?
Masha Vaisman: This doesn’t speak about how brilliant I am, but about how great the need is for modern children’s literature. The book was relevant. There was, for example, the word “prefix” - something that all children dreamed of back then: game console. It was about soup with dill, which my son categorically did not want to eat, and dad said: a good half of humanity dreams of such soup. The son was very ashamed, but he preferred to stay in the other half. In a word, these were stories from nature. And “Longing for the Jigsaw” is already school years. The hero of the stories is a boy who, getting ready for school, dreamed of how interesting it would be: geography, biology, physics... And then the first school disappointments came - after all, most of the lessons are: “Take your pens and write down.” And finally, in the fifth grade, labor lessons begin. The boy is promised that his class will be taught how to cut with a jigsaw. He dreams that he will cut out an Owl for himself, like the whole epic with the purchase of this the necessary tool... Finally the longed-for day comes. And at the very first lesson, the labor teacher announces: “Take your pens, let’s write down the safety rules when working with a jigsaw.”.
But this book was born later, when our publishing house began to slowly die.

Why?!
Masha Vaisman: For one simple reason: when we printed the first ten books, it became clear that they needed to not only be published, but also distributed. Sasha had some not the most suitable people for this. It was necessary for some reviews of books to appear, it was necessary to carry them to editorial offices, offer them to stores... There were no social networks as active as they are now, but the books were printed in large editions - 5-10 and even 15 thousand copies. "Bible Tales" Sasha Cherny", "Resentment-quinoa" Vladimir Nabokov, “How I caught little men” Boris Zhitkov, "White Poodle" Kuprina, "Maximka" Stanyukovich... Later the stories “About the Girl Masha” were published Vvedensky and "The Adventure of Weed" Rozanova. All were printed in Slovakia, excellent printing...
In a word, books were not taken to stores, and if they were taken, it was only 2-3 copies. And one day Sasha announced: I urgently need to empty one warehouse, I’m taking books to the trash heap. I say: books are in the trash?! What are you doing? In general, overnight I found a warehouse where they could be placed. And then, like an ant, she began to go to all sorts of stores and offer our books. It was very scary and difficult. Everywhere on the shelves there were books with some kind of pink baby dolls, mermaid princesses, everything pink, and against the backdrop of all this, our books, of course, caused bewilderment and indignation among merchandise experts.
In general, I sold my entire warehouse solely thanks to “Labyrinth”. Literally in a year. Not the first time, however, our relationship worked out. But it worked out. It was already ten years ago.

Therefore, you have experienced two gigantic crises - 2008 and 2014-2015. How did you do it? Because all the publishing houses sank (the price of paper and printing rose sharply), but did you “have it with you”?
Masha Vaisman: Yes, that's probably why. We had ready-made editions lying around, which we sold three, five, and seven years after release. Secondly, it helped that we managed to get into the financing program. We now publish two books a year using these funds. From 2011 to 2018, we survived thanks to a program of budget funding for socially significant literature.

What exactly did Rospechat finance for you?
Masha Vaisman: We now have a series “Russian poets for children and adults.” It appeared after the triumphant and quickly sold-out collection of the same name. It was unique book: 50 Russian poets, from to Tarkovsky, for each poem there is an illustration, a portrait of the poet. Three artists worked on the collection: Alexey Orlovsky, Irina Kireeva And Petr Perevezentsev. This book ended in a rush.
And then Sasha Konyashov died.
And all the work fell on me.

A poet's tale Silver Age Mikhail Kuzmin “Golden Dress”/August Publishing House, 2013

How did you start as a leader?
Masha Vaisman: The first book I made myself was Maria Moravian, "Orange peels". It didn't sell for a long time. But it was she who opened this series - Russian poets for children and adults. Next we had Sasha Cherny “What does anyone like” Marina Tsvetaeva“The skating rink has melted”, now there will be “Mick” Gumilyov, African poem. In the plans - .

Tsvetaeva, for example, has many poems that children can understand.

She also wrote her first collections “Evening Album”, “ Magic lantern” published very early. And she started writing when her mother died, at the age of 14-15. There is about children, about family, about brother, about sister, about music, about the skating rink. But characteristic of her why home tension - of course, it is also present there. And this is also important.

Do you, in principle, publish only Russian authors?
Masha Vaisman: Until recently this was true.

And now?
Masha Vaisman: Since everything in my publishing house is tied to me: I myself am responsible for everything and manage everything, then the choice of authors is my personal choice. But at some point I suddenly felt terrible fatigue from Russian poets, from their biographies and destinies. At some stage, I realized that I had done what I considered my indispensable duty—say, to return to the Russian reader who left Russia in 1917 and never returned here again. She published her first collection in 1914, at the same time, but they are diametrically opposed. Her poems have such vivid psychological portraits of children with all their whims, humor, secret movements of the soul, moods, grievances... And it turned out that I was not mistaken. All this is sold out, we are printing additional copies.
And tired of tragic destinies authors, I wanted to take a break. Get some respite. But before I had time to think about it, one translator showed me completely wonderful book Italians Chiara Lorenzoni"Dog Dreams" And since I love dogs madly - right after children, dogs come in second place for me, this little book was just a gift. For me and, I hope, for the readers. There are different dogs drawn there and the dreams that each of them sees. For example, a little Italian greyhound sees herself so big and brave that she even stops trembling... Publishing such light, bright books is happiness.

Is your publishing house growing up along with your children?
Masha Vaisman: This is also there. But the interest in the children's audience remains: I really love children. True, now we have

series “Books for the Greatest”. The format is palm size, and the books are for an adult reader.

This is how Alexander Konyashov’s story “Zelik” and later fairy tales came out Evgenia Zamyatina.

“Biblical Tales” by Sasha Cherny is his interpretation of biblical stories / August Publishing House, 2017.

You regularly print more copies: Tsvetaeva, which started with one thousand, has now already published five thousand copies. “Bible Tales” by Sasha Cherny has a total circulation of 18 thousand. Is your business thriving?
Masha Vaisman: Publishing house "August" is not a business. This is something I can't quit. It doesn’t feed me, it only gives me tea. If you want, this is more of a hobby that allows you to pay for itself (cover printing costs, pay off artists - pay off debts to them at least in a month or two, and not within six months). Well, after all the payments I have very little left. Of course, you can’t live on this money.
It helps that we are now exclusively sold by “Labyrinth”: this is very profitable for me.
The artists' fees are not fabulous, but they collaborate with August because I allow them to do whatever they want there.

I think the opportunity for creative freedom is no less attractive than the fee.

I myself am incredibly interested in what they end up with.

Why do people buy children's books today? After all, our entire civilization is being transferred to virtual media?
Masha Vaisman: I think if a children's book dies, it will die last. It's one thing to read Pelevin on the phone, but it’s another thing to read a children’s book. You need to touch it, feel it, chew it.

A children's book is like a little home theater!

Here the cover opens - this is a curtain, then another curtain - the flyleaf... Characters appear, the story begins... Moreover, this is a theater that you can stop at any time, return to the previous scenes, go to bed with it, sit down to dinner, go for a swim... This is such an attribute of childhood, an artifact that must certainly be present in it.

"The Wooden Actors" is a thrilling adventure story about two boys, Giuseppe and Pascual, who travel through Europe XVIII century with puppet shows/August Publishing House, 2013

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TO One day, on a rainy day in May, Vera and I came home from school, and my mother said:
- Children! In a week we are going to Crimea, and Anya, Kira and little Lizochka are with us!
- Without parents?! - Vera exclaimed
- No, why? With parents, of course.
- What is Crimea? - I asked.
“Crimea is on the Black Sea,” said my mother.
- Is the Black Sea warm?
- Very warm!
“To the warm Black Sea with Kira and Anya,” I thought, “wow”... And he said quietly:
- Hooray!
The week flew by as if I had pressed the rewind button on a video. Now we have already packed our backpacks, got into the car, then onto the plane... Hurry, hurry, to the sea, with friends...
Finally we landed, got out of the plane and were washed by the warm southern wind and the smell of Crimean plants. This is probably a dream.
- Anya, where is Kira? Kira, where is Anya? - the voice of Anya and Kira’s mother was heard.
This means that all this is happening in reality and Kira and Anya are with us.
- Isn't it fun? - said Anya.
“True,” I agreed.
We drove from the airport to the Crimean Primorye boarding house by car. Mom admired the beauty of the steppe Crimea. I kept waiting for the sea to appear, but it still did not appear. I was bored. The driver showed us the place where they filmed "The Headless Horseman"; after that we fell asleep.
I woke up from a strange smell. “This is the sea,” I thought and opened my eyes.
- Isn't it fun? - I heard Anya’s voice.
“True,” I said and saw the sea.
It turned out to be much larger than I expected. I thought adults always exaggerated when they said that the sea has no other shore in sight. I was sure that I would still see at least a thin stripe of him. But I looked closely and didn’t see anything like the shore. Just a tiny boat far, far away.
The most amazing thing is that the Black Sea was not black at all. The sea was blue and the waves were green. And to the left a mountain was quietly sliding into the sea...
“This is Mount Karadag,” my mother said with admiration.
“What kind of mountain is this,” said dad, “this dragon came to a watering hole and just can’t get drunk.”
“This is not a dragon,” said Kira.
“Dragon, dragon,” dad said with conviction. - Do you see the waves? He drinks and circles run on the water.
- So he's alive? - I asked.
“Of course, he’s alive,” said dad.
We looked at Karadag. He really looked like a dragon, though not alive, but slightly petrified. Still, from time to time we looked at him with caution.
On the right, the bank was not as high as Karadag. There were yellow-green hills and lilac mountains. It seemed like they were just a stone's throw away, and I wanted to go there right now.
A horse and its owner were walking along the embankment. We asked them:
- What kind of hills are there?
“This is Fox Bay,” answered the horse’s owner, smiling with narrow eyes, “there is sand and beautiful pebbles.”
- Do foxes live there? - I asked.
- There are not enough foxes anymore. Savages live there.
- Poor savage people live there! - I sang with joy. - Let's go there now.
But it was already getting dark, everyone wanted to sleep. In addition, Anya and Kira’s mother remembered that Anya had not played the violin today, and they went home. I looked after them and said to myself in Anya’s voice: “Isn’t it fun?”

The sea has different moods. Vera and I learned to recognize it by its color. It's very simple. If the sea is of delicate shades - blue, pink and green, it means that it is sleepy and will not play with us today. If the colors are brighter, it means that the sea is in a good, playful mood, waves will soon appear and - riding on them - lambs. But when the sea really turns black, it means the sea is angry, it’s stormy and you can’t swim.
I have to say, I'm not a big fan of swimming. The first two weeks I didn’t get into the water at all. No, I was completely healthy. The reason was different. First the pebbles. They are, of course, beautiful, but walking on them into the water... Try it yourself... Then thousands of winged ants were driven into the sea. Where did they come from? I racked my brains for a long time and came to the conclusion that somewhere a small island with a huge anthill had been washed away.
But most main reason my lack of bathing were jellyfish. No, of course, I liked them, these transparent mysterious jellyfish, but only from afar. I didn’t want to meet them in the water at all.
“Filya, go take a swim,” Vera said.
- I don’t want to, jellyfish get burned.
“They don’t burn, they’re small and cute,” Vera said, patting the little jellyfish with her palm.
“They are slippery and disgusting,” I said, and I was disgusted with myself, because I considered myself a friend of all animals.
“And they’re not disgusting at all, they’re smooth,” Vera said, stroking the jellyfish in her palm.
“There are just a lot of them,” I said and decided that I would never swim.
One day I was sitting on the shore, reading a book about sea animals and dreaming of meeting them in the sea. Nearby, a boy was fussing in the water and screaming loudly. At first I couldn’t understand what he was doing. It turned out that he catches jellyfish, brings them to his mouth and screams loudly. I couldn't resist and asked:
-What are you yelling about?
“I’m screaming in the jellyfish’s ears so that they die of fear,” said the boy.
This seemed to him not enough. He began to bury jellyfish in hot stones. At this point I started yelling:
- What are you doing?! Stop immediately!
- And what? - Without turning around, the boy muttered.
- Otherwise! They are alive! They are in pain!
- They're bad, they're slimy.
“They are smooth, it’s easier for them to swim,” I said and felt that I was beginning to love jellyfish.
“They are not smooth, but ugly,” the boy continued.
“You yourself are disgusting, but jellyfish are very beautiful, they are sea butterflies,” I said, trying to clear away the stones and throw the jellyfish into the sea.
- Come on, there are already a lot of them there, they interfere with swimming. And they are not butterflies. Butterflies fly like this, and these ones fly like this: buh-uh,” and he, spreading his arms and legs, showed how jellyfish swim.
- Not at all like that. They swim beautifully. And they don't touch you. “You don’t know how to swim at all,” I said.
- I can swim. But you don’t know how, because you’re afraid of jellyfish yourself,” said the boy, grinning disgustingly.
I was terribly unpleasant to hear this. It was too close to the truth.
- Am I afraid? Now let's see who is afraid of what! “I pushed him into the water with all my strength.”
He quickly stood up and began to approach me angrily. I didn’t wait for him and ran into the sea. I began to paddle with my arms like a crab and with my legs like a frog. And suddenly I felt that I was floating! It turned out to be so simple. And the jellyfish helped me a lot, because they didn’t interfere at all. It was as if they felt that I was now their best friend.

One day our friend Sashka came running to us in great excitement.
- Filya! Filya! We've got a giant toad! They say it's the size of a Doberman! She croaked all night. Nobody could sleep. She croaked like a dinosaur...
- Yeees? Interesting. I've never heard a dinosaur croak before.
- Yes, like a dinosaur! In the morning we ran to where it was croaking and found footprints there... Huge... Do you know what they are? Like an ostrich!
- Yes-ah... This is very interesting. - I mentally leafed through my favorite encyclopedia on zoology, which remained in Moscow. How useful it would be to me now! - So, you say, a toad. As tall as a Doberman. It croaks like a dinosaur and has tracks like an ostrich. I have never seen anything like it in any book. It's probably some kind of the new kind toads, some kind of mutant,” I concluded.
- Yes, yes, mutant! Definitely a mutant! - Sashka jumped joyfully.
“I would like to see her,” I said and felt that I was standing on the threshold of a great discovery.
“Let’s run,” Sashka said readily, and we ran. And Vera, of course, is with us.
Sashka was resting in trailers on the mountain. He led us to a trailer from where we could hear the croaking of a dinosaur toad. The place was deserted and gloomy. No one has lived in the rusty trailer for a long time. It's all overgrown with grass. Grass and some flowers grew lushly on the steps, in the windows and on the roof. This seemed extremely suspicious to me. Apparently, the ground around the trailer was sprinkled with something special. This could lead to the emergence of a new species of toad.
“Exactly, exactly,” Sashka nodded happily.
He showed us several thick stems broken at the height of my navel and said:
- It was a toad that jumped and crushed the grass.
I felt uneasy. If a toad crushed the grass at the height of my navel, then what kind of toad is it...
We walked around the trailer. Here and there there were crushed grass and broken reed stalks.
“But she grabbed these flowers,” Sashka said proudly and pointed to the bush of golden balls. There were no golden balls on it, only stems remained. The sight was terrible.
“Vera, scratch my back,” I said, because small... these, what do they call it, goosebumps crawled down my back. And Vera, as if not hearing me, began gnawing at the collar of her T-shirt.
- Where are the traces? - I asked, trying to scratch my back myself.
“I’ll show you now,” Sashka answered, and his face became serious. - Just walk carefully, otherwise you will trample your tracks.
Between the trailers there was a small sand area the size of a beach towel. Sashka pointed his finger at her and said:
- Well, even more than an ostrich.
The tracks really looked like frogs, although, to be honest, I haven’t seen frog tracks for a long time. They were the size of an elephant's foot and only vaguely resembled an ostrich in shape.
Before I had time to feel that my legs were becoming weak, suddenly a surprisingly vile croaking sound was heard very close by. The mutant toad was very close. Vera and I quickly looked at each other, and I realized that she absolutely did not want to meet the toad, just like me.
We rushed down the mountain as fast as we could, away from this trailer. I even forgot that I had weak legs and that I was standing on the threshold of a great discovery. Besides, I haven’t read everything about toads yet. Maybe this toad has been discovered for a long time. However, in no book will you hear the cry of a mutant toad, and even so close. This is happiness for a real scientist. Only one question remains: what was the toad doing on the mountain, far from the water that toads usually love so much?
All these thoughts kept me from falling asleep, and I tossed and turned in bed for a long time.
I woke up from a loud whisper:
- Filya! Filya! - Sashka whispered under our window. - A huge one is coming to us tonight bat flew in and broke the window! Let's go, let's see!
“I’m not such a fool as to run around about all sorts of trifles,” I thought and pretended to be asleep.

Mom said that you have to behave well on the breakwater, otherwise you might fall into the sea. It turns out that you just need to stand in the middle of this reinforced concrete slab and not move. Then there is no need to go to the breakwater. I would like to see how the fish and crabs are there.
One boy, Igor, was fishing. He had a great fishing rod and very good worms. I walked around him and sighed loudly, I wanted to ask him to hold the fishing rod, but I still couldn’t decide.
“You’re lucky,” I said, “you have both a fishing rod and worms...
- My grandmother gave me a fishing rod, but I dug the worms myself. I dug for a long time, the ground was dry, they crawled deep and didn’t want to come out yet. “I picked them out with my hands,” Igor said proudly.
“Great,” I said.
Of course, it's a pity for the worms. I don’t know if I could pull them out of the ground with my hands, but I’ve long dreamed of such a fishing rod.
“Yes, you’re lucky,” I said again.
- What are you lucky for? - Igor didn’t understand. - I only caught one. Others only eat worms.
A small silver fish was swimming in a plastic box. I wonder how other fish eat worms?
I lay down on the breakwater and hung my head down... This turns out to be how you should behave on the breakwater! It’s not dangerous at all, and everything is perfectly visible.
I saw a lot of fry. They ran back and forth in flocks, like schoolchildren at recess. There the first class swam out for a walk, they are very young. And there’s the second one, larger and smaller in number. There are only a few plump little boys in the third grade. The older they are, the more independent they are. Oh... oh, this is a manger! A whole bunch of fry, looking like small carnations, rushed somewhere. Where is the teacher? Here he is, barely keeping up with them. What a beautiful teacher fish! The scales sparkle... But this is gold fish, the real one! She was swimming slowly and suddenly stopped right under me. Maybe she wants to fulfill some modest desire of one good boy or girls? The fish wagged its tail and hid behind a stone. I made a wish: if she swims out again, she will fulfill all my wishes.
Kira, Anya and Vera came running. They also lay down on their stomachs and saw the fish. The fish was glad to meet them. Every now and then she swam out from behind the stone and listened to our wishes. Our desires were very simple.
For example, Kira wanted him to have a snake, well, maybe not even a poisonous one. There’s also an iguana, well, maybe not even a very big one. And another stingray, maybe not even an electric one, but a simple sea stingray.
Igor, whose fish ate all the worms, lay down next to us and said:
“I want my grandmother to give me a fishing rod so I can fish from the ice hole.” Because I live in Novosobirsk. It's always winter here. Summer is small. Or let me move here to my grandmother, to Feodosia. Summer is great here.
“I would also move,” said Vera, “but actually my wish has already come true, I already have a dog, Watson.” I don't know what I want yet.
“But my wish will never come true,” Anya said confidently. - I want real horse, but my mother won’t allow me to have one. - Anya became very sad and almost cried.
- Look, look! - Vera screamed. - The fish wagged its tail... That means everything will come true!
Anya looked at the fish, stopped crying and began to hope.
Now it was my turn to make a wish, and I said:
- On New Year I made a wish - to learn to fly. It never came true. Maybe you can help me, fish? I would really like to fly, I’m even ready to become a butterfly for this. For a while. I also want to be a lone hero and save everyone, but not a lawyer, as my mother wants, but simply the ruler of the world, and abolish all wars. I also want to invent a pill to stay small forever. It will consist of baby blood, baby spit and baby breath...
Everyone thought about it. The fish gaped its golden eyes in amazement. She didn't expect there to be so many wishes. And that was not all.
“And I want to become a doctor,” said Vera. - And not just a doctor, but a veterinarian.
“I also want to become a veterinarian, but not just, but to treat only horses,” said Anya.
“And I will be a sailor, only sail in the southern seas,” said Igor.
“And I’ll be a bachelor,” Kira said quietly.
A piercing cry from the mother of Anya and Kira was heard from the shore:
- Anya, where is Kira? Kira, where is Anya? Let's go have lunch!
The fish waved its tail at us and swam away. Probably have lunch too. But I know she will come to us again...